Tag: Lies

A.I.

Rita Sommers-Flanagan5 Comments 

Humans have always portrayed The Forces of Creation in our own languages and images. Only recently has our frenemy, Artificial Intelligence, joined us on this odyssey. Maybe this is helpful. Maybe not.

Notions of God are often stuck in mid-adolescence. Love and forgiveness are common attributes, but God remains dangerously amorphous, shaped by the malleable beliefs and projections of flawed beings clinging to primitive weapons and misinterpreted promises.

Human versions of right and wrong, the Essence(s) of Life, or of reality itself, are neither static nor complete, but regardless, our minds, hearts, and souls are being fed into the voracious machines we’ve invented. These machines will outlive us, and they are building themselves out of whatever they’re fed. The data-crunchers are insatiable, and like us, they are tragically indiscriminate about what they gobble down.

As short-lived but conscious beings, the wisest thing we can do is nourish ourselves, and thus the little beasties, with the most accurate realities and noble aspirations at our disposal. Check your sources. Consume only what is verifiable. It may be slim pickings, but it’s better to die filled with small bites of truth than with a belly distended by self-absorption, jagged fantasies, and outright lies.

In a few days, our abundant, feral hollyhocks will explode into colors determined by last year’s cross-fertilizations. I mention this to The God of Tight Jeans sitting on the steps beside me, and his face lights up. He leaps to his feet. Channeling Jewel Akens, Dean Martin, and my very own hip-swaying mother, he begins to croon a tune from the 60s.

“Let me tell you ‘bout the birds and the bees, and the flowers and the trees, and the moon up above. And a thing called love.”

“Really, God?” I say with an eyeroll. “A thing called love?”

“Yeah, baby!” God has begun dancing seductively around the hollyhocks, throwing in a few lewd pelvic thrusts. “Thanks for not mowing the clover and the dandelions. You’re the best.”

I consider my urge to dismember anyone who hurts or disagrees with me. “If I’m the best, God, we’re all in serious trouble.” 

“Yes, you are,” he nods affably and morphs into Many. The translucent bodies of the Creative Forces sway in front of me. “Put the swords away, honey,” they whisper. “We need no defense. Only pollinator species.”

Glue Us In, Baby

Rita Sommers-Flanagan3 Comments

Three years ago, sudden and massive waters dropped a generous array of boulders near the newly cut riverbank. I’ve rolled these stones into a labyrinth and placed a recycled angel named Mary Magdalene at the center. Her arm fell off occasionally, but a fellow angel stopped by and glued it permanently in place.

Rafters appreciate Mary as they drift by, snapping thin lines through the air, hoping to catch and release innocent trout. Darth Vader and the Hulk stand guard, and I’ve added reading glasses.

Lately, besides sticks, stones, and angels, I’ve been drawn to shattered mirrors, discarded jewelry, and certain words–the ones used to deliver sucker punches: Bastard (someone born to an unwed mother); Bitch (a female dog); Fuck (to make love); God (a concept used to elevate oneself and control others).

“Wait!” God exclaims. “Don’t put us on that list.”

 I shrug. “You put yourselves on.”

“Hmmm. Well then, we’re taking ourselves off.”

“Good luck,” I shrug again. “I cross you off. You crop back up.”

“Fascinating,” God says. “What’s that about?”

“Consciousness. We’re at war. URGES. LIES. Still small voices. It’s Jiminy Cricket vs. Pleasure Island. We don’t want to humble ourselves and do the work necessary to be real.”

I step back from my collage and admire how the jagged and the smooth interact. The reconfigured shards reflect my splintered image.

“We love what you’ve done with your imperfections,” God says.

 “I rather like being cracked and shiny,” I admit. “Is that okay with you?”

An explosion of unadulterated laughter threatens to jiggle things loose. The glue isn’t quite dry.

“Mind?” God howls and contorts into a string of Mardi Gras beads, baubles, bones, and tubes of epoxy. “Glue us in, baby,” they chant. “Glue us in and hang us down near Mary.”

“But it’s dangerous down there. Floods. Trespassers. Unrelenting sun,” I warn.

In fact, my angel’s outer layer is peeling from constant UV exposure, and I could lose her to flooding or vandalism.

 “Then hang us high,” they laugh. “We’ve seen a flood or two in our day.” They begin singing an old camp tune. “You put your right arm in. You put your right arm out, you put your right arm in…. Let’s go!”

 I throw my arm over God’s shoulder, and we croon our way to the labyrinth. To Mary. To the river.

We put our whole selves in. We put our whole selves out. We put our whole selves in, and then we shake them all about. We do the hokey pokey, and we turn ourselves around.

And maybe. Just maybe, that’s what it’s all about.

Texture

Rita Sommers-Flanagan6 Comments

Nine years ago, when the walls I’m staring at right now were taped, mudded, and painted, I was in the midst of chemo; my attention was limited, and my judgment fractured. I chose the texture of least resistance: orange peel. We ended up with a boring, slightly bumpy, ivory creaminess as far as the eye could see. I’ve since blued and purpled some rooms to break the grip of ivory, but undoing texture is a whole different matter.

Humans are a thin-skinned, acne-prone, melanoma-inclined, busted-nose species. We’re born smooth, but life has a way of texturizing and shaming, so we add layers. Leather and tatts. Silks and fine linen. We use fat wallets and fancy cars to distract.

“What about sanding?” asks the Creator of Walnut, the Weaver of Wool. “And there’s always acid, epoxy, varnish, and grinders.”

Even allegorically, this sounds painful. In the looking glass, I see that I’ve grown more textured than the last time I looked and not in ways I’d describe as appealing.

“Don’t be so judgy.” says the Big Eye in the Sky. “I’d go face to face with you any day.”

“Of course, you would,” I say. “And I’d be toast.”

“Toast is soft bread with a roughened exterior,” the Eternal Jokester counters. “Quick exposure to intense heat.”

My friend Scott rails about the energy required to make toast, but I like toast. I resist feeling guilty because I turn off lights like a religious zealot, hang my clothes to dry, and heat water on the wood stove. Shall I thus be held blameless for the fractured ozone? Mudslides? Fires? For a carbon footprint larger than my feet? Shall I be exonerated?

“Of course not,” the Balancing Beam assures me. “Exoneration is out of the question. But when your fault lines widen into fatal apertures, and your body rejoins the teaming earth, your consciousness will be windswept and shiny. Smooth as glass.”

“Gee, thanks,” I say. “That sounds just peachy. But in the meantime, I think I’ll get some Botox and touch up my hair.”

 “Oh, yes! And amass more riches and fame,” Pock-Face Crooked Arm grins.

“Easy peasy,” I say. “It’s all about appearances. And lying. The bigger, the smoother, the lie, the better.”

“I’m not sure where I went wrong,” The Truth admits. “But there’s hell to pay. The course corrections are going to be rugged.”

“But it will come out okay in the end, right?” I ask in a weak voice.

“You may have to define what you mean by the end, honey,” the Lover says, stroking my sagging cheek. “That word isn’t in my lexicon.”

The Not God

Rita Sommers-Flanagan4 Comments

The Not God stops by frequently and introduces herself as if we’re meeting for the first time. I play along. No need to upset her; she’s lonely and vicious. I offer the same cookies, coffee, beer, and fruit I offer Real God. The Not God refuses with a condescending comment about her restrictive diet. This makes me want to eat like a voracious pig, stuffing my mouth so full that crumbs fly like gnats every time I chew. I doubt many of us welcome visits from the Not God, but they happen. Shit happens. The Not God happens. I curl my hands into fists under the table, extending my middle finger. In my head, I sing “Eff you, Eeeeffff you, oh yeah, yeah, yeah.”

This helps.

But the Not God ignores social cues. She’s so full of Not Self, so sure of royal status, so human. She exists at Absolute Zero. Not fluid or spirit. Solid, jagged, arrogant, overjoyed by the apparent demise of all things bright and beautiful. In her spare time, she writes video games and mini-series with endless carnage, but her main source of income is discord sown generously in ground made fertile by fear and greed.

Her harvests are plentiful.

The Not God often stays the night, insisting on clean towels every morning. She’s working on a trilogy and uses our internet even if we aren’t home. She might be a bot. She might be Russian or Chinese. She has refused to fill out the census paperwork, won’t open the door, and screams at children who cross the lawn. Childhood is an irritation. Old age disgusts her. She wears expensive perfume.

She smells of death.

The Not God dresses up in fancy formulas, promises, and guarantees. The Not God baits and switches. The Not God has a lot of drunken orgies, discount sales, and prayer breakfasts. Give her a nod, she’ll take your head. Give her an inch, she’ll write you into the trilogy or turn you into an avatar that avenges her imagined slights. She assures you she’s the only one who knows you.

She lies.

The Not God wants to be God in the worst way. She longs to sit on the throne issuing commandments. The fantasy of judging the quick and the dead is orgasmic. Addicted to power, she preens in the mirror and carelessly exposes the dark places we try to cover. She has a lot of money. Quite a few guns. And millions of frightened followers that she plans to eat someday—from the inside out. But as Real God gently reminds her; that restrictive diet of hers makes a final feast unlikely.

Exceedingly unlikely.